Dreamless and lost
 in a mind of feathers and fancy;

 headless
 without ceiling,
 nonsense drenched with
 the unhinged conviction of
 solidified knowing.

 No, no;
 it’s heedless 
 yoyo disintegration
 of runaway spirits
 scattered in the ceaseless tock
 of arhythmic time.
 
 Electrical metaphors,
 impulsive,
 unstable,
 but oh so pretty;
 previously seen  in the spastic dance
 of St Vitus gone a rye,
 
 unplugged
 in a 3:00 AM
 torpor. 

 
 
 Annie Mulz was a stranger to herself,
 feeling that nothing is real.
 
Asleep in the world,
 losing the dice,
 unable to play the game;
 confused by a love
 she never had,
 invisible and nobody,
 yet she has a name,
 and that’s the beginning of something. 

 
 
 Every source of secret amusement
 comes with the cost
 of isolation, and
 the threat of smugness - 
 conviction of a specialness,
 a vestige of a
 childhood inkling
 that, inhaled
 like some illicit powder,
 maintains that delusion,
 when the rough truth
 remains: 
 it is not so. 

 
 Like everything else,
 human connections shift;
 from neglect, 
 from ineptness,
 from the stranglehold 
 of family ghosts.
 
 expectations demand retrofitting,
 the broken remnants of disappointment
 are discarded 
 onto the scrapheap
 of loss. 

  Acquisition and clean up,
 the things we do, and those
 who are tasked with the remains
 of our desire.
 
 This nobility of mission,
 of keeping things right,
 unnoticed when accomplished,
 issue of complaint
 when left undone.
 
 In the doing resides
 dignity.
 
 All else is failure.